


Expressions of Interest Must be Made in Writing

by qthelights



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M, Marking, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-01
Updated: 2010-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 00:28:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qthelights/pseuds/qthelights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Misha writes on Jensen they're killing time and it's unexpected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Expressions of Interest Must be Made in Writing

The first time Misha writes on Jensen they're killing time and it's unexpected.

They're sitting back from the set's action in their directors chairs. Jensen slumps, legs kicked out straight in front of him, crossed at the ankle. Misha is sitting next to him, drawing geometric designs over the script balanced on his crossed knee in blue ballpoint pen. They've been waiting for a good forty minutes now while Jared films his close ups. Normally they wouldn't even need to be here for them, but the new director was adamant that it would only take ten minutes and they'd move on to the close ups on the Dean and Castiel parts.

Which was what the guy had said right before the lighting rig collapsed. Then it was meant to only be another twenty.

They finally got filming happening again, but Jared is fucking up his lines. Understandably, given that it's closing in on three in the morning. It's still frustrating.

When Jared swears, annoyed at himself, and the director calls _'still rolling'_ Misha rolls his eyes at Jensen and whispers, "I'm bored. Entertain me."

Dave, the sound guy, turns around and glares at them and Misha rolls his eyes again, but does shut up. It's the third time in the last 30 that it's happened. Jensen would tell him off himself, a gentle elbow in the ribs, but he kinda empathises with him. It's not getting any earlier and they've been here for hours.

Misha gives up playing with his script, lets it drop to the ground beside their chairs with a soft flutter of pages. Jensen raises an eyebrow and is rewarded with Misha's grin, eyes twinkling with mischief. Misha reaches over and grabs his wrist; his fingers a warm circle of skin. He pulls Jensen's arm onto his armrest and pushes up his shirt sleeve and t-shirt, baring the skin of his arm.

"What-" Jensen whispers, but Dave turns and shushes him angrily.

Misha just clucks his tongue and shakes his head, presses the ballpoint of the pen to Jensen's skin. He tilts his head and tries to read what Misha is writing but his handwriting is sloping and the angle is bad. The pen tickles as it draws over his skin, a dark line of blue squiggling in its wake.

Misha pulls the pen away and leans back into his seat, waits for Jensen to read. Jensen brings his hand back, angles his arm awkwardly.

_Go out with me. I'm told I'm awesome in bed._

Jensen looks up at Misha, surprised. Misha is wearing a look of unusual seriousness.

* * *

The second time Misha writes on him, they've already been on a date. Several in fact. It turns out Misha wasn't exaggerating; he is awesome in bed.

In fact, they've spent a fair amount of the time sliding sweat-slick against each other, gasping into each others mouths, moaning and writhing and rutting.

After one such occasion, about two weeks after they first start seeing each other, it happens again. Misha had come over to eat and maybe fuck, if they could summon the energy after the day of filming, but so far they'd only managed the eating portion by reheating cold pizza from the night before.

Jensen leaves Misha talking back at the television in increasingly perturbed tones as he watches the news, and slips upstairs to have a quick shower.

He's under the spray four minutes, maybe five, the water sluicing over his hair and flattening it to his forehead, when he hears the bathroom door open. Typical. Thirty seconds later and the shower door opens, a gust of cold air eddying in and around the curtain of steam.

Misha presses up against his back; a line of cool skin to Jensen's heated flesh that makes him shiver.

He grunts his disapproval and Misha simply slides his hands around his waist, fingers trailing down Jensen's stomach, following the thin line of hair down to its treasure. His hand is water slick and cool around his dick.

Five minutes later, Misha biting his shoulders and neck, his cock jutting hard into the small of Jensen's back, and Jensen's coming against the dark green tiles of the shower wall, hand braced to keep him from falling.

Misha picks up the soap silently and starts cleaning him off, turns him around and props him against the wall while he lathers and cleanses down Jensen's front, water rushing over him, plastering hair to head, naked, wet and clearly still hard. Water streams down and off the length of Misha's bobbing cock as he kneels to clean Jensen's legs. He stands and pulls Jensen back under the water to soap up his back, fingers tickling down Jensen's spine.

It takes a second to realise that the movement of Misha's fingers has changed to patterns over his shoulder blades, but he gets the first 'S' and a 'U'. He misses the next two or three, catches the 'M' in the middle of his back, and what he thinks is a "C' an 'O' and a 'C' and one more letter written in soap just above his ass.

It takes him a minute, Misha kneading his fingers into Jensen's hips while he thinks, before he gets it and turns into the spray with a grin. He slides to his knees on the hot tile and sucks Misha's ridiculously shower hot cock into his mouth.

Misha's hips jerk toward his lips and he moans as his fingers thread into Jensen's wet hair.

* * *

The third time Misha writes on him it's during a lazy afternoon at Misha's apartment. They're sprawled on the sofa, Misha's back settled against Jensen's chest as he reads. Jensen watches the game on television, tries not to jostle Misha with his arm movements of despair and victory.

Misha's cell phone rings and he fishes it out of his pocket where it's vibrating into Jensen's inner thigh.

"Hello?" Misha says, and Jensen feels the words rumble into his chest.

"Oh, Hi!" Misha says animatedly, twisting to drop his book on the floor. His elbow catches Jensen in the solar plexus but he pays little attention to Jensen's _oof_ of surprise. "How are you?"

Jensen can only hear half of the conversation, feel it too, and it's strangely nice that Misha doesn't feel the need for privacy, doesn't move from the warm spot they've created on the couch. Then again, it could just be that Misha feels he's part of the furniture.

It's sometimes hard to tell with Misha.

The conversation carries on and Jensen tries to focus on the television. Even given the obvious permission he doesn't feel right listening in on someone else's conversation.

Five minutes later, maybe ten, and Misha struggles into a semi-sitting position, leans forward and snags the red pen off the coffee table where it had mysteriously appeared a week ago.

"Sure. Yep, I've got one. Shoot"

Misha twists back, eyes scanning the room for something and not finding it. Jensen raises an eyebrow but Misha just shrugs, listening to whoever is on the other end of the line. Then he twists towards Jensen and tugs at the neck of Jensen's t-shirt.

Before he knows what's happening Misha has written a series of numbers onto his collarbone. Jensen can see the red mark in the corner of his vision when he looks down and goes cross-eyed.

He looks back up and glares at Misha.

Misha just smirks and mouths "What?"

When Jensen snakes a hand down under the waistband of Misha's sweats, curls his fingers around Misha's flaccid cock and squeezes, Misha's breath hitches and his eyes roll.

"Um yeah.. i have to go..the um.. bath's boiling over..." Misha stutters and throws down the phone.

Jensen considers it a victory. He may be furniture, but he's no one's notepad.

* * *

The fourth time, Jensen asks him about it.

"What's with all the writing?" he asks one day as Misha writes across his back in a grey eyeliner pencil that he found in Jensen's bathroom cabinet. He thinks it must be his sister's. He hopes it's his sister's anyway.

Misha had disappeared to clean himself off, returned with a warm washcloth and the thin stick of wood tucked between his fingers. He'd cleaned up the mess they'd made on Jensen's stomach and started making a new one out of kohl.

Jensen had given up protesting and turned over onto his stomach to get more comfortable. Or to give Misha a better writing surface. Whichever. Plus, eyeliner-writing on one's stomach is surprisingly ticklish.

Now he's face down on the charcoal sheets, head to the side, spent and happily dozing. Misha's propped up on an elbow, the bump of bone in his wrist sliding across Jensen's back.

"Hmmm," Misha hums softly, concentrating. "Why is a raven like a writing desk?"

Jensen snorts into the pillow. "I don't know. Why?"

Misha is silent a moment more, dotting and crossing letters on his back. "Because," he says, pauses and rubs some of the pencil off with the pad of his thumb. "They both have inky quills."

Jensen chuckles, despite himself. "Cute."

He loses himself in the tickling cursive on his skin. Misha is still unnervingly silent, distracted by the tome he appears to be writing. "Seriously, Misha. You better not be writing flowery poetry on me or something."

"Would I do that?" Misha says absently. The pencil has reached his middle back.

"I swear, if there's so much as a floppy petal, man..." he mock warns.

Misha laughs and it makes Jensen smile. "You need to stop reading my twitter."

"You need to stop writing on me," Jensen replies.

He doesn't really mean it.

* * *

The fifth time Misha doesn't write on him so much as he draws on him.

They're stick figures, entwined on Jensen's ankle. He should have known better than to wear sandals when there are felt tip markers around.

He's also pretty sure they're doing something unspeakable. The stick figures, that is.

Currently he and Misha are being almost perfectly respectable. Sitting next to each other on the top of the steps that lead down into Jared's backyard. The barbecue has wound down and only a handful of people remain. Jared himself is feeding scraps of meat to the dogs, while he talks to Gen and one of her friends. Jensen has a cold beer in his hand, sunburn and freckles on his nose and cheeks, and all is right with the world.

Except for the part where he'd crossed one leg, ankle resting on his knee and given access to Misha's ridiculous urge to brand. He doesn't even know where Misha got the hot pink felt tip from. Possibly the children that had been running around earlier. He doesn't know who's they were either.

It's just as well Dean never bares so much as a toe or wardrobe could be interesting in the morning.

Jared wanders over, scoops a beer out of the cooler at the bottom of the stares. He watches Misha's drawings progress down Jensen's foot between the leather straps.

When Jared looks up and catches his eye Jensen knows he's in for a world of mocking.

Jared twists off the top of his bottle, throws it in the cooler and takes a sip. "You know man, you could just get a tattoo."

Misha huffs disbelievingly at the suggestion but doesn't look up from his masterpiece. "It's all about the experience, Jared."

"Of having your doodles drawn down my leg? That's one experience I'll pass on."

Misha shrugs. "Your loss. I give good doodle."

Jensen chokes on his beer.

* * *

It's about a week later when Jensen catches sight of himself in the mirror as he changes out of his clothes to sleep. He has fading ink all over his body.

Darker bits on his hipbones where Misha had chosen a pen that was a tad too permanent to write messages while Jensen had slept. Misha had had an earlier call-time and was gone by the time Jensen got up. His body was littered with ink-to-skin post-it notes. Things like _suck here_ and _this is my favourite part_ along with detailed instructions and the occasional arrow.

By now, the red phone number has faded to a pink smudge. He knows that there isn't any eyeliner left on him. It's all on the inside of his shirt. The pink stick figures have bled into his skin so that it looks like he has some disturbing skin ailment.

Misha appears in the bedroom door, leans casually against the door jamb and lets his gaze rake appraisingly down Jensen's naked torso.

"This isn't putting me in the mood to sleep. Just so you know," he says nonchalantly.

Jensen rolls his eyes, gestures abortively at the ink covering his body. "Seriously. I look like a fucking sideshow act."

Misha grins. "You look hot."

"You have the weirdest kinks, man."

"Oh you have no idea, Jen," Misha grins, eyes flashing heat and humour.

Truthfully, Jensen's a little bit scared.

When the sheets are mussed and coming off the mattress corners and they're both pressed tight against each other to one side of it to avoid the wet patch, Misha spies and grabs a black sharpie from the nightstand. Jensen had been signing autographs with it and stupidly left it where Misha can see it.

"Oh no you don't," he chastises, pulls the marker out of Misha's fingers. "Let's just cut to the chase, yeah?" he says at Misha's pout.

He pulls the cap off with a _pop_ and presses it to the skin of his own stomach. When he's finished Misha tilts his head to read the upside down letters and laughs.

_Property of Misha Fucking Collins_

He doubts it'll stop Misha marking him, but it's probably true nonetheless.

* * *

End.


End file.
